Near a window in awe silence

Near a window, in awe silence: 

seeing roman rubble from above, 

two resident cats stroll by decadent tunnels, 

(where water once flowed in and out)

and tiny birds grace downward, unafraid, 

toward either supper 

or death, or both; 

and the dancing blades of grass sunbathe 

while they still can, 

as shade is to come, 

like yesterday, 

I am reminded of how little it matters, 

the totality of it all, of one breath, 

in the grand breathing of things. 

We are all children, sitting on a riverbank, 

under the orange strokes of a strange summer, 

and we should watch the current 

carry the driftwood in peace, 

with the burnt leaves up high, 

oblivious of where they came from, 

or where they'll go, 

feeding us with a sense of possibility 

that the lost pebbles of an empire, 

cannot.

Empty Window Shopper (July 2022, self-taken)